An Uncommon Nonsense
by sekdaniels
Summary: This will be the home of all my drabbles and stories for season 2 of the International Wizarding School Competition. The bits and bobs will also be posted as separate entities, but I'm assembling them all here so I can look back at this a period of work collectively. I'll update characters and time periods to reflect the most recent addition to this set.
1. Insomnia

**AN:** **AU** I guess I see this as happening somewhere in Year 6 with no particular spot in the canon in mind. The interactions between these two characters may be a bit out of canon for this time period, so it is most definitely AU.

I've always loved Minerva's animagus form and thought it didn't really get enough attention for being so clever. Playing with that a bit here.

**Insomnia**

It wasn't so much that mastering an Animagus form was advantageous — although, certainly, it _was_. No, it was _which_ form you chose that mattered; at least that's what Minerva McGonegall thought.

And it was hard to call her wrong in that thought as she swished and crept her way through the darkened hallways of the castle at night almost completely ignored by those she encountered. ' _A cat is a perfect cover, if one is honest.'_

Surely the children looked out for Mrs. Norris. Her ability to create mischief, even where there wasn't any, was legendary. But a regular cat? And every day mouser; of which the castle was filled in its futile attempt at controlling the mice? A shabby, rough-looking cat like that could go about almost anywhere as if invisible, and would not be given a second glance. Even by those _up to something_.

And, of a certainty, Minerva did.

She had to respect James and Sirius; their efforts to support their friend left them with Animagi that would do nothing to assist in their efforts to creep about.

'_Perhaps, _that _happy accident was all to the good. Those boys got up to plenty of mischief _without _it.'_

Still, it was hard to forget the absurdly out-of-place form of Peter's; and how that became all too clear in its true meaning later. It made her heart heavy.

Her nighttime walks, more than not, resulted in the sorts of encounters that lifted her spirits; and Minerva relished them. The quiet conversations of budding romance; or the full-on snogging in a dark alcove. Despite her prim and proper demeanor, Minerva was something of a romantic at heart. She reveled in the rush of love and curiosity; it reminded her of her own youth, and she could not help but be gladdened by those warm feelings. Far from chastising any transgressors she might've found, Minerva was more apt to leave them be—trusting her students, by and large, to make their own choices. And mistakes. Frequently it was just the salve she needed to beat her restlessness, and she would return to her bed with joy in her heart. It was a soothing feeling.

She was in search of that feeling when she found herself, again, in the darkened corridor of the third floor near an area that Flich had deemed 'forbidden'. Minerva snorted with derision.

'_How best to get a curious student to come here but to label it 'forbidden'?' _Hadn't that already proven to be true? Isn't that how Harry had ended up here?

But it wasn't Harry here now. Minerva approached on silent paws with trepidation. As the inevitability of war tightened its grip, she found that she was not alone in her insomnia. His long, pale fingers glided along the stone work of the wall over and over, as if he were wishing something to be there that wasn't. Foolishly, he'd done nothing to cover his silver-blond hair, and in the moonlight, he could easily be identified even without the benefit of a cat's sharp eyes.

"Draco?" The voice, deep, yet surprisingly soft, made her flinch. She hadn't been alone; and yet, she hadn't sensed the other presence.

"You can't be out here now. You know that."

"And you know I have no _choice_."

"I know that you also have _help_, young man." Snape sidled up to the younger Malfoy, grabbing at him by his arm, breaking the spell that all but entranced him. "Go. Now!" Snape charged, practically pushing Draco down the hall and back towards his dorms. The young man fled, still more afraid of his Head of House than the Dark Lord.

'_At least, for now.'_

"You can come out, Minerva," Snape spoke into the darkness. She prowled out of the shadows, choosing to remain in her Animagus form, and curled herself around Snape's legs. She pressed into him with extra vigour and purred. She knew full well how much he hated to clean cat hair from his trousers.

"Been here long?" he purred in return, and picked her up to cradle in his arms. It was a pure violation of all that was sacred between magical beings. Then again, now that she thought about it, so was spying on your colleague.

He brought her up close enough to his own face to look into her amber eyes. "Now make sure you go back and report on me," he hissed. "Run away to Dumbledore right now," he smirked. "I can tell you for a certainty, he's up."

He dropped her unceremoniously onto the floor and stalked off. Minerva shook her head and sat to clean her paws while she gathered her wits. _What did he mean? What did any of that mean?_

Minerva had the sinking feeling that her future held many long, sleepless nights to come.


	2. Of Rigel Kent

Story Title/Link:

School and Theme: Ilvermorny/ Examining how wizarding society treats those different from themselves.

Main Prompt: (Quote) "If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." Sirius Black (GOF)

Additional Prompts: (Behaviour) Sneaky

Year: 6

Wordcount:** 2018**

Buzzwords that informed my story: (1) discrimination, (6) division, (2) treatment of magical creatures, (7) dark creatures.

**AN:** **AU**

Unbeknownst to me prior to this challenge, Centaurs turned away an opportunity to be classified as Magical Beings alongside witches, wizards, Veela, and Giants. Their primary protest was a deep desire to not share a classification with "dark beings" such as vampires or werefolk. It was a revelation that got my mind turning; reflecting on other peoples who had chosen to live separate from a larger society rather than conform their principles to something they found unacceptable. Centaurs, along with Merpeople, had _chosen_ to be divided away from other Beings because the compromise asked of them was too much.

To me, it spoke of a set of strongly held beliefs; and I found it ironic that it would be in a most human expression of self-awareness that Centaurs might be judged as "beasts". In any case, it is a sandbox that is full to the brim for exploring what it means to live by principles, and I thought that it could be fun to play in.

Ronwyn is an Irish name in keeping with on the Rowling's known Centaur characters, Ronan, but one of my own devices since no female Centaurs were made known in canon.

All acknowledgement to George RR Martin for the "wars to come' line towards the end which is lifted directly from his _A Song of Ice and Fire_.

I guess I envision this as being sometime just before the on-set of the first Wizarding War, but I do not have a specific time mapped out. For that reason, I will list this story as definitively AU.

Rigel Kent is another name for Alpha Centauri; one of the primary stars in the constellation Centaurus. For the obvious reasons, it seemed an apt addition here.

Lastly, there are more than a few allusions to astrology within. Centaurs were said to be master practitioners so I used it to inform my language and imagery.

**Of Rigel Kent**

The new moon cast no shadow, and the sand of the Black Lake was dull and gray like granite. No night was better for observing.

_And for not being observed_.

Ronwyn approached the soft, wet shoreline with less apprehension than she should have; the cover of darkness washed away colours, and inhibitions. Granted, there was nothing wrong with her being on the castle grounds, per se, but one need never worry about getting mixed up in the messiness of human affairs if one were to remain unseen, invisible.

_Here, but not _here_._ She smiled to herself—self-satisfied—and lowered down onto her haunches into the forgiving comfort of the sand. _Far too human, Ronwyn._ She retrieved the small, black notebook and a pencil from the pouch slung across her torso and turned her face up towards the stars. The night dazzled with light and future potents; a powerful confluence; a fire trine.

She sketched and noted, her heart full of grace, ascent—a conjunct of tension and power. She had lost herself to the art.

Until the coat along her back bristled a warning. Ronwyn breathed deep the scent of forest pine and dark night; beasts of another nation. The lake lapped at her hooves, carrying its message.

_In a bottle, of all things._ Ronwyn whickered her approval and turned her head aside.

"You're curiosity betrays your instinct to survive, young one."

He was by no means young, for a human; but to Ronwyn's kind, he was still a colt—full of awkwardness and stumbling. Tall and lanky, he ambled out of the shadows of a stand of trees, his face turned down towards his feet. It was an effort for him to look at her.

"You need not be afraid of me, child," she said, turning a bit more to face him. "You have been here before. I am not unaware." She busied herself by cleaning off the bottle she had retrieved from the lake. She dipped it into the water, brushing it gently with her hands to remove all of the sand. Ronwyn knew by now that ignoring this particular human was the best way to get him to speak.

"I could not sleep," he said after some time. "I had thought to walk a bit—to clear my head."

"And has it worked?"

"No," was all he said in reply. He sat down some ways away from her, but in her sightline. It was a respect she was not used to from the Beings she'd encountered before.

Then again, this one wasn't much like _any_ of the Beings she'd encountered before.

"This is an optimal time for casting into the future, if you wish to join me." Ronwyn fetched up her pencil and notebook, and tilted her head back, returning her attention to the sky. She realized she was in a very vulnerable position, her neck extended and exposed; her powerful legs curled beneath the bulk of her body where they could do her little good. She was showing her trust in him.

Would he see it? Would she regret it?

The lanky, awkward male siddled closer and turned his own gaze skyward. She listened as his breath seemed to deepen and slow; his heart, so clearly audible to _her_ ears, now quiet from the drumbeat of anxiety that it had been in when she first noted his presence. Ronwyn, too, felt the shift in the air about them; it augured great and terrible things.

And a star shot across the sky, a flame of portent at its back. Albus gasped, breaking the spell of peace between them. Ronwyn's head snapped around, and their eyes met.

His eyes, more than anything, were haunted.

"It is not a wonder you do not sleep," she said, "if you already know what I now do." She rose, graceful and lithe for all her size and strength.

"So you have seen it, too?" he asked, far too eager. Or was it fervour she detected. Humans did not tend to put any special stock in prophecy; at least this one didn't. Yet here he was, clinging to her every word.

_Why?_

Ronwyn didn't answer right away. She read the message left for her from the bottle that had washed up along the edge of the lake. She read it again, and again. Only then did she re-focus her attention on the male human before her.

_When had he gotten so close?_

"A life as short as yours lurches from tumult to tumult; a falling leaf fluttering in the wind. It is nothing short of constant chaos for those of your ilk." She reached back for her notebook and tore out a page.

He lurched forward, grabbing at her arm. She knew the smallest flinch would have sent him flying, such was the strength of even a female Centaur; but Ronwyn found herself so dumbfounded by his naivete that she froze, staring. "But, the world could be in great peril?"

Ronwyn clamped down on his hand, pinning him in place as she leaned in, menacingly. "Is it not always so?" Her grin had no mirth in it. "There is something about your kind; the way you separate—the way you tear each other apart—it's not a wonder to me that the world is in peril." She released him with force, his clumsy form falling to the sand, sliding away from her in terror. Faced with her full height and power, his face betrayed the regret he felt at having pushed.

"You _think_ you can ensnare me and my kind into doing your dirty deeds?" Ronwyn advanced on him slowly, backing Albus up into the water itself. She leaned in "You should read more history, young wizard," she seethed. "We've been here before."

She reached toward him, only to slip a long, muscular arm past him to barely break the water's surface; a small 'plop' sounded in Albus' ear, but his eyes remained locked on the Centaur. "We refused you _then_, too."

"I—I kn—kn—know," he stammered, "b—but I—I—I had t—to tr—tr—try."

Ronwyn pulled back and looked him over. Even soaking wet and cowering, Albus Dumbledore was clearly a powerful wizard; someone who commanded respect among his peers. And yet, here and now—and in his visits past—he showed her deferrence, respect. He made it clear that despite her categorization as a 'beast', he saw her as much more. He treated her as an equal.

"You fear me," she said, finally, after many moments of silence.

"Yes."

"Yet you came to me all the same."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Our need is great," he whispered. "Dire, even."

Ronwyn reached out a hand and offered it to the drowned wizard, pulling him up and out of the water. She backed up, creating space for him to return back to dry land while not being too close.

"It must be great indeed for you to have taken such a chance with your very life."

Albus had barely finished waving a warming charm over his shivering body when the wind blew through him like a sharp, cold knife. He pulled his robes tight and looked up to see Ronwyn standing at the waterline, her arms raised—mane whipping about her shoulders—water frothing into small white caps—a bottle bobbing, flailing, capsizing out in the deepwater of the lake.

Albus rushed to the lakeside, careful to keep his distance from the Centaur. "The bottle," he breathed. "Where? How?"

Ronwyn smiled; or as much as she could manage to match that most human facial expression. "We were not the only ones to turn down your _last_ offer of 'being-hood', human," she said. "It has created a sort of odd alliance; a kinship."

Her eyes peeled away from Albus' to look out beyond him, to the water. Albus turned in time to see the ghostly green hand emerge from the black, grasp the bottle, and drag it down beneath the waves.

"Merpeople," he whispered and sunk back to his knees. Ronwyn thought he looked the very epitome of desperation. She was not sure she understood. When he turned his face back up to look at her again, it glistened.

"There are things about us; about humans," he started. "Things you should know—"

She raised a hand, cutting him off. "We know all we wish to know about _you_."

"But we are fighting for what _good_ remains? Will you not help?"

"We did not assist before."

"Yes, but—"

"Do vampires still exist?" she asked, her pause pregnant with the implication. "Werefolk and hags?" She took a step towards him, lowering her voice. "Are _they _still considered 'beings'?"

He nodded.

"You cannot have the good you so desperately fight for, because you go out of your way to protect evil," she spat. "If we help you with this war or not; there will inevitably be others. It is your _true _nature." She turned her face back to the night sky, its constellations having shifted overhead as they were wont to do. "There are always more wars. It is written in the stars."

Albus pulled himself up and gathered as much dignity as he could muster. "Should I expect the same reply from the Merfolk?"

"You needn't ask me," Ronwyn replied, smugly. "But I would expect so. Their opinion of your kind is even worse than ours."

He nodded again, making no effort to counter. "There is no chance for us without an alliance."

"Then you will live in darkness. At least, for a time."

He began to shuffle off, his shoulders slumped, his gate slow. Ronwyn found herself having an unfamiliar feeling: regret.

"If it matters—" she called out. Albus turned, his face crumpled with sorrow. She took a ginger step in his direction to close some of the distance. "If it matters, you—_you alone_—have made a very compelling argument for the humans of your kind."

They stood. She thought that she might reach out to him, to show him the comfort of touch that humans seemed to need on occasion; but it was somewhat difficult between species, even now.

"You are the only human I know who has ever come to ask," she said, quietly. "To even do us the dignity of learning our ways so as to approach us respectfully." Her eyes turned up to the forest's edge and she nodded for Albus to look.

His gaze followed hers, stunned by the sight of Centaur after Centaur emerging from between the trees. There had to be at least ten of them.

"They did not believe me," she whispered near his ear. "They did not believe that I could have a civil accord with a human being. Or that he could show such deference to one like me." She stood up straight, her chest pushed forward; proud. "They came to witness a new truth between us."

Albus looked hopeful.

"We will not assist you," she restated clearly, and his dismay returned. "Neither though, will we impede you." She arched an eyebrow as she gazed down at him.

Albus paused, his face thoughtful. And then, he brightened; his eyes widening with realization.

"Bring them to the forest, and we will show no kindness to those you oppose," she confirmed.

"And the water?"

"I imagine it will be frigid and uninviting," she smiled.

He stood up tall, straightening his robes in an effort to reclaim what dignity he could muster. "It is more than I can ask," he said.

"Well, then," she replied, "it is a good thing you did not." Ronwyn reached out a hand to the human male before her, offering it freely and with no malice. Albus clasped it; an agreement to be, and let be.

"Take what is offered, and ask no more." She lifted a hand to her heart and breathed in sharply—almost as if she were suddenly pierced. Her face froze.

"And wait on the boy." It emerged from her lips, but not with her voice.

"The boy?"

Ronwyn only shook her head sadly. "We wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Albus Dumbledore." With that, she left him without so much as a glance back.

And the water on the lakeshore produced another bottle.


	3. Closer

**A/N:** **AU. **I am a huge fan of the US version of House of Cards. As a former resident of DC, and someone who worked in a very political sphere for a while, it spoke to the things I saw and felt walking the marble halls of the capital. Nothing was ever truly as it seemed. So, I found myself unable to resist this Francis Underwood quote, and I was instantly inspired, which never hurts.

Proximity to power is useful, if you know how to use it. It probably is one of the most complicated issues that Rowling sort of, but not satisfactorily, addresses in her books. The idea of using someone for what they can give you; or worse yet, to prey on someone's guilt over mistakes made in order to manipulate that person. While I don't consider myself a "Snape apologist", I do see that his character arc is extremely complex, as is Dumbledore's. I believe it is poetic justice that their lives, and deaths, are intertwined; but it by no means begins to address the evils they have done, alone or together.

This quote has inspired me to play around with the convoluted dynamics that Snape must have had to maneuver while playing his duel roles, and being so close to power. This scenario is not alluded to in any way in the books, and therefore should be considered AU. I do imagine this happening somewhere in year six.

Round #: 3

Wizarding World News- Writing School

School: Ilvermorny

Year: 6

Prompt: "Power is a lot like real estate. It's all about location, location, location. The closer you are to the source, the higher your property value." - House of Cards

Theme: Writing School - Dialogue

Story Title: Closer

Word Count: 863

**Closer**

Flamboyance was for the weak—for the powerless. Giant chandeliers and high-gloss marble floors, trumpet vases filled with rare orchids and cut-crystal glassware, endless drapes of velvet strewn across windows and women; none it conveyed what Lucius really wanted.

Power.

Power came from the head of the table. And those who sit nearest the head.

Never was that more true than now, particularly since Malfoy Manor had become the defacto headquarters of the Dark Lord. Ironically, the Malfoy patriarch still lacked that which he most desired; and it showed. Disheveled. Beaten. Imprisoned. Lucuis Malfoy wasn't a partner, he was a patsy. Someone to be thrown to the Ministry, to distract from the true objective.

And so he sat at the end of the table. Ignored. Disrespected. Scorned. The only sense one might have of his resentment was the cold fire that burned in his eyes. You could feel it searing the back of your head, if you were paying attention.

Severus Snape, on the other hand, sat just off the head of the table. The right hand of the Father, as it were. He knew where the power lied, and how it conveyed by proximity.

He had never been in more danger, or more in thrall.

Their history had been a rocky one; uneven. Lucius had everything that Severus envied, at first. The lifestyle, the respect—the power. _What I confused for power, at any rate_. It soon became clear, however, that power—true power—was something more.

It hadn't anything to do with money or objects. It had to do with talent, and fear. And being close to that fear.

"Funny how things work out," Lucius snarled from a dark alcove near the grand staircase. He had shuffled off immediately after the meeting had broken up. It wasn't unusual. What was, was that Severus had stayed behind rather than immediately returning to his post. He was lost in thought, pacing the foyer when he was shocked back to reality by Lucius' snide remark.

"You. Why you?" the elder Malfoy grumbled.

Severus took a quick look around before he stepped into the deeper shadow of the well beneath the spiral of the stair. He didn't want to be seen in his company, but their history together demanded some loyalty.

"You know why," he whispered, motioning for Lucius to recede with him into the pooling gloom. "I'm _useful_. You should try it."

Lucius threw his head back and laughed, but Severus was on him in a heartbeat—his hand over his mouth, pressing down tight.

"Fool!" he hissed. His hand clamped down even tighter, and he looked deep into his friend's eyes as they widened in alarm. He felt the thought pulse through his taught arms. Should he kill him? Should he just put him out of his misery? _Why not? Because we're friends? Are we friends? Were we ever? Or was I just a useful idiot?_

His hand released, and Lucius gasped in air like a man saved from drowning.

"I loved you once." Severus sighed. He'd wanted to avoid having to say it aloud. "I would've done anything—_anything_—to have had what you did."

Even in shadow, Lucius' scorn was evident on his face. "Someone like you must've done _something_ indeed to have climbed so high." Even now he couldn't hide his disdain. "And now you sit at the head of the table, sneering down at the rest of us."

"If you insist on seeing it thus, so be it." Severus turned to leave but the man grabbed on to him as if he were a life-preserver. All pretence at arrogance was gone now; his eyes only showed desperation.

"Please," he begged, "don't make me—"

"What, Lucius? Make you what? Beg? Beg for the lives of your family?" Severus gathered up his cloak, making especial effort to snatch back the fabric Lucius still clung to. "Or did you mean for yourself alone?" He could no longer hide his disgust. "How could I do _more _for you? I've only offered up my life? Or have you forgotten?"

Lucius had the grace to look ashamed, but it was too late for that.

"Do you love your son?" It was a rhetorical question, Severus knew, but he couldn't help himself. He needed Lucius to understand. "I protect you, by protecting _me_. It is the best I can offer to Draco."

"And me?" Only Lucius would have the gall to ask.

"_You_ are expandable. But I'm sure you already know that. My obligation is to your family now; and I can only do what I must for them by maintaining my position of trust." _And power._

Severus took a moment to dab the sweat from his face and straighten his robes. It didn't pay to look nervous around the Dark Lord. _Or that sniveling sycophant Bellatrix._ "Do us both a favor, Lucius, and don't approach me again. Ever. It does you no good, and it puts my standing in jeopardy. "

He passed out the shadows and back out into the manor before making his way outside. There was no relief in having had his say with Lucius. Only regret. _Only sadness._

Severus never once looked back. There was nothing there to see.


	4. Found Objects

Round#: 3

**A/N: Story Title/Link:** Found Objects

**School and Theme:** Ilvermorny/ Artefact Incidents—This round you will be looking at Magical Artefacts and how they are used, or how they can affect the user or victim.

**Main Prompt:** [emotion] Fear

**Additional Prompts:** [object] torn t-shirt

**Year:** 6

**Wordcount:** 2480

**Buzzwords:** Dark Magic

**AU**

Found Objects is a staged combat fight style used in theater and movies relying on 'everyday items' rather than a specific weapon, like a sword or a gun. My former life on the stage demanded the double-entendre.

The Hand of Glory in HP is based on a real life practice of making a candle out of the hand of a criminal, preferably using the human fat of said person as the tallow and their hair as the candle's wicks. It's an arduous process, but the benefits—being able to see in the dark and unlock any door—were considered worth the effort for those who needed such skills. I guess it is assumed to be other criminals, although that is not perfectly clear. While HP Wiki and Pottermore both make reference to the ability to see light no matter the conditions using Rowling's version of the HoG, I was intrigued with the idea that it might also open doors of all sorts—even those that were not meant to be opened. I will explore both here.

I think I wanted to use someone unexpected for this. Someone who would have access to a magical artefact and it would not, necessarily, be unusual, but also who would not automatically be associated with dark magic or a cursed object. Thusly, it had to be someone we knew came from a long-line of magic, but was also not drawn to dark arts.

I also have some questions about the magic Rowling clearly names but does not define in the way Harry is initially saved; the ancient magics that bind us by blood. If 'love' is a magic, does that mean that 'hate' is, too? I am exploring that idea here.

I picture this taking place some years after the war, but preceding the epilogue. I also envision this as being a point in which Ron and Hermione's relationship comes to a defining moment at which things may not play out as expected. I am also grateful to all who might read this for allowing me a bit of grace to muck about with the king, while I acknowledge that this may seem as if I have stunted his emotional growth a bit. For that reason, I list it as AU.

**Found Objects**

"You acquired this how?" she asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. Nothing he said was making any sense. That wouldn't be unusual for Ronald—not when he was excited—but something about _this _made her skin crawl. "Just go through it again. I don—"

"What does it matter _how_, 'Mione," he interrupted, exasperated. "What _matters_ is that I have it!" He clutched the box tight to his chest, his face covered in a sheen of visible sweat despite the cold. He leaned in, his eyes wild, and whispered, "What should we do with it first?"

"_DO _with it?" Hermione pulled back. She wanted to get as far away from that thing as possible. It was unfortunate that her boyfriend had decided to bring it into the flat they shared. "I'd like to burn it, if I'm completely honest."

But Ron wasn't listening. The box was open again and he was staring at it, a creepy leer on his face. She was starting to get seriously worried.

She reached out to him. "Why don't we bring it over to the Ministry for a cursory inspection. You know, just in case." No sooner had the skin of her fingers touched his own, he flinched as if he'd been burned.

"No!" he screamed. The lid of the heavy, dark wood case came down with a thud as Ron scrambled to gather it up. "I don't need anyone to look at it. And I don't want to waste time at the Ministry." He stood up, his complexion even more sallow and feverish than it had been just moments before. Hermione wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep himself upright.

She leapt off the couch, quickly moving to his side, ready to offer him support. Moving erratically, he bypassed her using the wall to prop himself up as he made his way to the door. "Don't try to stop me, 'Mione," he slurred.

"Stop you?" she pleaded. "Stop you from what? Where are you going?" But he was already in the hall, stumbling out into the cold night without even so much as a jumper on. Hermione made a desperate grab at him, but only managed to snag his t-shirt, tearing a hole along the neck hem as he pulled free, plunging into the night. With a flash of light, he was gone.

_Dammit. _ She'd only managed to throw a scarf around her neck, her breath visible in the frigid air as she mumbled to herself. _Bollocks and dammit, Ronald! What have you gotten up to now?_

She ran back inside their flat, grabbing up the floo powder and hoped her timing wasn't terrible.

"Grimmauld Place," she breathed, and stepped through.

Her timing was terrible, naturally. What did she expect? Hermione put her head down and made for the kitchen. She put the kettle on and waited. Ginny was the first one to pull herself together.

"And he just _vanished?_" Ginny asked, struggling to knot her bathrobe closed. She grabbed up three mugs, sliding them across the counter. Hermione poured. Harry wandered in, pulling a jumper on and running his fingers through his hair. _As if I didn't know what was going on..._

"He's been acting odd most of the day," Hermione said, pushing a mug in his direction. "Anxious. Secretive." She could feel her throat tightening up. "Did something happen at the Ministry?"

Harry looked uncomfortable. He paid an inordinate amount of attention to pouring milk in his tea.

"Harry!" Ginny grabbed a hold of his chin and turned his face towards hers. "_What_ is going on?"

He shook his head. "I told him to leave it alone." He took out his wand and accio'dhis coat. "I told him we didn't have enough experience to deal with it."

"Experience with what?" Hermione found herself trembling. Truth had a way of resonating even before one knew it as such.

"It's a Hand of Glory," Harry mumbled as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "It's a long-lost Prewett heirloom he's been researching for months now." He dug around in his pockets and pulled out a knit cap. "I didn't realize he'd actually found it."

Ginny's face turned red, anger rising. "How? What?"

"Please don't be cross with me," Harry said, grabbing her up quickly into his arms. "He's a grown man. I do _not_ control him."

"No one does; _that's _the problem." She shot a withering look Hermione's way before she buried her tears in Harry's shoulder. "It's a good thing I love you," she whispered.

"Same."

Harry looked up and nodded at Hermione who made her way for the exit. He joined her outside. "Show me where you last saw him," he said, offering her his arm. And they apparated together into the night.

* * *

Hermione renewed her warming charm and stamped her feet. Leaving without a coat was not her brightest move. Then again, she hadn't planned on being outdoors for over an hour in the deep winter chill. She blew into her hands to keep her fingers nimble.

"Sorry this is taking so long," Harry said. "I just need to be sure…" His words trailed off as he charted the magical signature again and again. Hermione watched the trace glow in golds and reds with his repeated strokes. "It doesn't make sense," he said, quietly.

"What doesn't make sense?" Her reply aloud seemed to jolt him. He looked up at her, his eyes wide.

"He's at Hogwarts."

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Ron stood outside the vault door, under-dressed, chilled to the bone—spellbound. He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten there. He lit the hand and the shadows crawled back, as if the dark itself feared the thing.

And the serpents coiled back to their nests.

* * *

"I don't know what she expects of me," Hermione went on, more out of a desire to distract herself from how cold she was than anything else. "It's not like I'm his _mother_."

_Nor would I want to be_.

"Anger is sort of how Ginny goes about getting upset," he said, absent-mindedly. "She doesn't mean anything by it. It's just her first instinct." He gave her a knowing smirk. "I figured you'd be used to that by now."

Hermione knew what he meant being with Ron as long as she had already. Still, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Was this what her life was destined to be?

Harry stopped walking and raised his hand, indicating Hermione should do the same. She watched him strain to listen, her hand tightening around her wand.

Finally, he motioned for her to follow as they made their way down towards the dungeons. It was an approach to a part of the castle she had hoped to never make again. Beyond the Dark Arts classrooms and the Slytherin dormitory. Down, down into the moldy darkness where nothing good thrived. The perpetual drip of water echoed in the narrow tunnels, growing louder as the earth closed in around them. Walls made of sharp rock glistened with ice crystals as they dove deeper into the earth.

The shirt almost glowed against the dark basalt in the light of her illuminated wand. White on black. Hermione knew it right away—the t-shirt Ron had been wearing when he left. What was left was barely recognizable—wet, dirty, and shredded to ribbons.

"Merlin's beard," Harry whispered as he peered over her shoulder. "Come on. We're running out of time," he grabbed her hand and they practically ran the rest of the way towards the chamber.

What happened next was a blur. Hermione thought she remembered throwing up a defensive spell, but to no effect. She was enthralled immediately; the curse surged through her like an electrical charge.

Her last clear memory was of her body being flung into a wall of the bedrock that surrounded them. She crumpled to the ground, the ice melting against her to pool beneath her face. Through a haze she saw them, Harry and Ron. Struggling, grasping. Ron seemed impossibly strong—almost alien in the harsh green reflections off the lagoon.

But her sight faded and the world went dark. She lost her grip on composure. She started to forget who she was. There was only the terror.

* * *

Warmth only returned with the sun. A sun many days hence, as it broke through the low-slung clouds of a late February afternoon. It illuminated a stark white room that was clearly not her own.

"Oy, there," Harry smiled. He looked exhausted. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he smiled.

"Same to you," she croaked. Her throat was beyond dry. She went to reach for a glass and found her arm unwilling to comply. She tried to turn her head to look at Harry, but it only lolled from side to side.

"It will take a minute," he said to her, reaching in to offer her a sip of water from the drink he poured. "You were hurt pretty badly."

Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to take it all in. "Hurt?" she managed after a moment.

"The _hand_," he said. Harry sighed and shook his head. "A story passed down from the Prewett side of Ron's family, I gather. Personally, I didn't believe it actually existed, but Ron wouldn't give it up." He looked up at her, his eyes haunted. "It is a Hand of Glory of immense power, Hermione. Easily the most potent I've ever seen."

She blinked her eyes back open with what seemed an inordinate amount of effort for something so simple. _Did he sound _excited_?_ She was having difficulty getting her bearings. "Is?" she asked. "As in, it has not been destroyed?"

"Goodness, no," Harry replied. "It is being studied and documented by Ministry officials and Auror specialists, even as we speak." His eyes had a strange look about them, but then again, she was so tired.

_Perhaps I am imagining things._ She sipped slowly at the water he still had on offer. He was staring off into the middle distance, clearly not entirely with her here. _And where is here, exactly?_ She managed a cursory glance at her surroundings; white walls, white sheets, white skin.

"Ron!"

His body was mottled blue, black and ice white as he lay, unconscious, in the bed next to her own. Even his hair seemed streaked with white, as if he had aged enormously.

"Easy does it." Harry reached in to prop her up a bit more so she could see better. "He's got some ways to go to recover, I'm afraid."

"But—"

"It is a curse of the blood," he said, grimly. "We don't know yet what recovery will look like for him."

Had she been able, Hermione would have sank back down into her bed. Her mind spun with thoughts, none of which seemed coherent.

"I know," Harry filled into the silence. "It is all I can do to get Ginny to eat."

"What happened?" she finally managed.

"I wish we knew," he answered. "He seems to have gone into some sort of nightmarescape. Nothing he said made any sense. It was as if he had gone back to second year."

"You mean with Riddle and the diary?"

"He was looking for Ginny. Like he'd lost all those years in between"

They sat in silence for a moment. Hermione tried desperately to remember but her head was so fuzzy. "Why didn't it affect you?" She asked, finally. "Why did it attack me and not you?"

"It didn't. It doesn't." He was fumbling, covering something up. Hermione knew him too well for that. She looked at her best friend square in the eyes, and he folded. "The hand was cursed, yes. But _it_ didn't attack you. Ron did."

Hermione found herself grateful for not having full control over her body. She couldn't jump out of bed to rush to the library. She couldn't even jump to a conclusion. "But why?"

Harry held her hands in his own. "It's too soon to know, 'Mione," he soothed. "But you can bet that it wasn't about you. He was not in his right mind."

In that moment, Hermione felt lost. _What is wrong with us? Has it always been this way? _She could no longer tell if it was her own, true feelings, or the residue left behind from the curse.

"For a certainty, the object is cursed," Harry interjected into her thoughts as if he'd read them. "Now you might ask if they all are, and, yes, that is sort of how they are made. But this one is very different."

_Leave it to Harry to plunge into a problem that needs solving so as to take my mind off the rest. _ _He really is the best friend a girl could have._

Hermione decided to play along. "Harry? Do you think it is anything like what happened to you? I mean, like when you were a baby?"

"You mean how my mother saved my life?" His face sort of pinched up while he thought this idea through. "Well, this certainly isn't love..."

Hermione chewed at her lip; a good sign if there ever was one of her feeling more like herself. "Do you think that instead of love—like it was for you—do you think it was _hate_? Do you think this was meant to be an expression of hatred towards the creator's own family?"

She instantly felt the rush of adrenaline; it was something she always felt when she was on the right track.

Harry rose and walked over to Ron's bedside. He flipped open the chart, making note of this or that, and then raised his wand, performing a quick diagnostic sweep over and around Ron's still form. She heard him catch his breath before he rushed back to her bedside.

"You truly are the most brilliant witch of your age," he exclaimed, grabbing her up and planting a kiss on her forehead. "I've got to run."

Hermione was unceremoniously released, flopping back into pillows like a rag doll. "You can't leave without telling me what you found!" She managed to crank her neck enough to follow him towards the door, and caught his smile.

"I'm not entirely sure," he grinned, "but let's just say I'm fairly convinced we'll have our Ron back in no time." Harry crossed back to her quickly and leaned down. "Coiled like a snake around his heart. Something dark and foreboding. It tightens if you probe it. Hate, I bet. I would never have thought if you hadn't..."

He shook his head, but relief was written all over his face. "I've got to get this to Kingsley so someone with more expertise can take start to work on this!" He squeezed her hand one more time, and flew out the door and into the bright morning sun.

And on the other side of the room, Ron opened his eyes.


	5. Insidious

**A/N:** AU. I guess I don't really see this as needing to be during a specific time period, but it seems to me to be after Year 2 but before they all really start dealing with some big, grown-up issues and are coming into awareness of things not being as they seem. Year 4 might fit the bill, but I admit that some of the emotions strike me as being a bit younger.

Also, reinforcing this idea, I somehow decided in my brain that Molly Weasley throws the odd French phrase about at home; and its a habit that Ginny has taken up as she is young enough to still emulate her mother. Obviously, this is not canon so I'll list this as AU.

Round #: 4

Wizarding World News- Writing School: Comma types, usage

First word of sentence is freestanding

Directly addressing someone or something in a sentence

Attributing quotes

School: Ilvermorny - Year 6

Prompt chosen: [plot point] Education Equality

Word count: 844

**Insidious**

It had taken her a few years to notice it. Being Muggle-born, as she was, most of her first few years at Hogwarts had been a wondrous cacophony of the new and surreal. Still, as she acclimated to her new world, Hermione could not help but notice the subtle differences in the way she was treated as compared to others. The barely perceptible nods of agreement or recognition exchanged between witches or wizards, even to the point that it crossed the student-teacher barrier. It left her perplexed until, one day, it finally dawned on her what was happening.

"Like what you see, Granger?" Malfoy drawled as he slid by, a sly sneer on his face. He'd caught her staring daggers at him and Snape conversing in the hall.

"You wish," was all she could manage before the flush started to rise in her cheeks. She stormed off, chased by the sounds of laughter. It made her feel angry, and, somewhat, unsafe.

She stalked over the Gryffindor table and slammed down her sizeable stack of books. Only Ron managed to keep eating.

"That's it! I've had it!" She sat with a thump.

"What is it _this _time?" Ron managed to ask around his mouthful of oatmeal and raisins.

"Shut it, you sod," Ginny piped up, sliding down the bench to be nearer Hermione. "What is it?"

"The double-standard," Hermione cried. "How do you put up with it?"

Ron just shrugged, picking up his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ and faked an intense interest in the Quidditch scores. Ginny wanted to throttle him, but that could wait.

"Being a witch isn't easy," she began, but Hermione's reaction told her it was something else.

"Tosh on being a witch," Hermione spat. "I'm talking about being a Muggle."

"Well, you're _not_ a Muggle," Ginny insisted. "You're Muggle-born, yes. But you _have_ magic. There's a significant difference."

"Not to _some_ though, is there?" Hermione asked, almost accusingly. Ginny could see the hurt on her face; she knew what came next.

"Hermione," she sighed, her voice softening. "There are some people—some wizards and witches—"

"I thought I _knew _this," Hermione broke in, sobbing. "I thought I understood. I mean, I've read _Hogwarts: A History_ at least five times!"

Ginny grabbed her friend up into a hug as much to hide her smile as to comfort. Hermione was so smart sometimes. This was _not_ one of them.

"There is more to life than books," she said, allowing herself a small giggle. "Books can't explain how a thing _feels_. Not really."

Hermione wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I guess I just thought…" She broke off and blew her nose into a napkin.

"You thought those days were over?" Ginny asked, arching an eyebrow. "Au contraire, mon amie. There are _many_ who cling to the old ways." She glanced over her shoulder at the Slytherin tables. "Most of whom just so happen to be get sorted into the House Salazar built."

"But the _professors_," Hermione said. "They do it, too!"

Ginny shook her head, but could not disagree. It was evident to anyone with eyes that some professors would always show preference to those of 'certain heritage'. It was sad to admit. Ginny herself had been raised in a proud family with a long line of magical heritage. Yet, it had not ever occurred to her to call herself 'pure-blood'; that was preposterous. The Prewetts and Weasleys both had intermarried with Muggles many times over innumerable generations.

"Well, they're gits," Ron asserted for the first time in a while. "It's pretty simple 'Mione. Once a git, always a git. No need to fret over it."

"Easy for you to say. You're a—"

"Careful now," he said, staring at her intently, a smile creeping over his face. "It's not frequently that I'm accused of being a stuck up prat. You never know how I might act."

She blinked, owlishly and blushed for the second time in only the past hour. How could she have been so insensitive to think they did not feel it, too. That they were not affected, too. She heaved a heavy sigh. "Sorry."

He smiled at her and pushed a bowl of oatmeal in her direction. "You might feel a bit better about the world if you ate _before_ you tried to change it."

She looked down. The bowl steamed, hot and hearty, drizzled with honey and a healthy pat of butter, all swimming in the perfect amount of milk. Just the way _she _liked it. She glanced up at him in surprise and he just smirked, and went back to his sports section.

"Ugh, gross." Ginny left in a huff. Hermione was never sure if that was about breakfast or her brother, but suddenly, it no longer mattered. She tucked in and shared the companionable silence of acceptance with someone who mattered far more than Draco Malfoy and his stuck up lot.

_Maybe Ron was right after all_. Turns out, he'd be right a few more times than Hermione Granger was like to admit.


	6. La Cosa Nostra

Round#: 4

Year: Six (6)

School: Ilvermorny

Theme: mystery/ quest/ losing something of importance

Main prompt: [emotion] betrayal

Optional prompts: [event] getting lost/ [action] searching

Word count: 1831

Author Note: Muggle!AU/ Mafia!AU

Re-imaging the point in DH when Ron leaves Harry and Hermione behind if they did not have magic sort of got me fixated on two things: 1) why would Ron need to leave and 2) how would he depart but also not be able to return if he did not apparate. Enter the idea of him being thrown in a trunk and driven around until he was lost, and the story sort of started to reveal itself. Throwing someone in a trunk immediately reminded me of _Goodfellas_; and I couldn't help myself. I hope this is as fun for you as it is for me.

Making a few references to some Kray Twins haunts because it felt like I needed to pay homage to some of London't most notorious gangsters. Maybe I'm too much of a Tom Hardy fan. Amico mio and amico nostra (friend of mine and friend of ours, respectively) are references to Ron being "in the firm" as it were. In this case, I'm thinking of the "firm" as a replacement for the Order of the Phoenix. Once you are in, you're in for life.

It is also not by chance that they end up in the Forest of Dean, but rather nostalgia. I do not state it specifically, but make reference to a few towns and spots within and around the Wye Valley Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Because I've moved their "job" to a more urban environs, and I needed to place for Ron to "get lost", I flipped the script on who ends up abandoned in the woods. I hope that works for all involved.

Finally, I found betrayal to be a more complex feeling than I had anticipated. I tried to show some of its gray-er aspects in that betrayal, in and of itself, isn't always bad, and not all the people who commit them are either.

**Ilvermorny: The Room of Requirement**

Look at a riddle, and the seeking of something of great importance, the answer to a question or person to help resolve it.

Getting rid of something unwanted

Losing something of importance

Secret

Safe space

**PROMPTS:**

[Emotion] Betrayal

[Action] Searching

[Event] Getting lost

**La Cosa Nostra**

"Sit down already!" Harry was really annoyed with the delay. Having Ron fumbling around and wasting more time was pushing him to his limit.

"Where?"

"Hermione? Please?" Harry motioned at her, turning his back in frustration. She stepped in, guiding Ron to the edge of the car's trunk. She double-checked the hood on his head, waving a hand in front of his face. Ron did not react, and she looked back at Harry and nodded a silent confirmation.

"Come on, mate," Ron whined. "This _isn't_ necessary, is it? Couldn't we just talk to Big Al—"

"You can't have it both ways, Ron," he said, pushing his chest. Ron fell back into the trunk with a thud, and a yelp. "Pull your legs in."

"Please," he whimpered. Hermione grabbed his feet and folded his legs into the car. She threw a blanket over him before quickly turning away. Harry could tell she was still unsettled with the plan, but Ron had left them few choices. _Backing out on gangsters was fatal. Usually. _

"You made your choice, Ron. Good thing you're gonna live to regret it instead of the alternative." Harry slammed the trunk closed and headed to the driver's side of the car. Hermione intercepted him.

"Harry—"

"Don't start," he cut her off. "We _agreed _to this. We talked it over and agreed." He leaned in and started the car, an old Cadillac Brougham, with an engine to match. The V-8 roared to life with a low-growl of power. _Loud being the key. If we are going to talk about him, I don't want him to hear us._

He grabbed at her arm and dragged her away from the car, just to be sure. "He wanted to be a part of this job, part of this crew; and now he wants out? He _knows _too much to just walk. You know that."

"But, Harry…"

"You _know_ what happens when you cross the Family." He gathered her up, pressing her close so he could whisper in her ear. _It never hurt to be extra cautious, especially when you were double-crossing some of the most powerful people in London._

"_Amico Nostra_," he mumbled. "He's protected—he's a 'friend of ours', right? He'll just need to lay low for a while—just like we talked about." He could feel rather than see her nod. He squeezed one more time, for effect. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's go and do what we have to do."

She wiped the tears out of her eyes and took up her position in the passenger seat. "And you're sure that Big Al will vouch for him? I mean, when he comes back?"

"He owes me a favor of two," he smiled. "Trust me." The tires squealed as they rumbled out into the night.

* * *

Ron dozed and woke up with a start. The straight-aways were long, and lulled him to sleep almost immediately. _How long had they been driving? _He had tried to keep up with the twists and turns, making a note in his head what street they turned down, which direction they were headed. _He took the long way around Ropery, and headed up the Southern Common. Thought I was a goner there, but…_

As it turned out, he wasn't going to end up an extra body in a freshly dug grave over at Tower Hamlets. They had something _else_ in mind for him.

It was clear as they hit the A11, curved around Whitechapel, and were headed out of the city. _Did we get off on the A1 or did they drive around to the 501?_ He strained to try and keep track in his mind. _Where were they headed, for Christ's sake?_

Once they hit the open highway, he was _really _lost. The driving just became a monotony of pavement sections bumping by beneath the tires, rocking him, lulling him into a catatonic state until he realized he'd lost all track of time.

What did it matter anyway? There was no good way out of this, he knew. _Whether they dump me around the corner from my mum or out in the woods, the result is the same. I'm a dead man. _ He felt the tears well up and sting his eyes. He blinked them back as best he could. _I'll be damned if I let them see me like this._

In his heart of hearts, he knew he hadn't been cut out for this life. He should never have agreed to do this job. But now that all was said and done; and he'd gone back on his word? _How does this help Hermione? The only one you wanted to protect in the first place you big dolt?_

"How does this solve _anything_?" he whispered into the darkness.

The tears on his face started to freeze as they made their way north.

* * *

She knew that this was the best they could do for him. Still, she felt like Harry had punched her in the gut. She stared over the steering wheel out into the growing gloom of twilight, Harry nodding beside her and felt her stomach twist. _How was _this_ the best option?_

"Because this is how he stays alive, 'Mione." Harry was never one for deep sleep. Still, his uncanny ability to read her face gave him the illusion of clairvoyance. It bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

"If he survives being tied up and left for dead out in the middle of the forest."

"We're not leaving him _actually_ dead, remember that." Harry was adamant that there was no way home for Ronald. Not now. _Once you cross the firm, there is no way back except in a body bag._ "All he has to do is slip out of some ropes and not be stupid enough to come back to Mile End."

_You mean manage to get out of his bindings by himself in the middle of nowhere without so much as a coat before he dies of exposure._ Hermione was feeling uncharitable at the moment. It was probably the stress of being up all night. She sighed aloud. It couldn't be helped. Loathe as she was to admit it, Ron had made a right mess of things.

Harry was oblivious to her inner dialogue which was not the least bit like him. "At least this way, he can come home—eventually. And we won't get caught stuck looking like we played a 'll never be 'Ron' again, but he can take on a new identity and be a part of our lives. And _that's_ what matters."

She wondered, not for the first time, how they were gonna pull this off without ending up in a river themselves, but there was no way she was gonna ask. Not yet, anyway. _I hope Big Al has all the clout within the syndicate Harry _thinks_ he does. _Otherwise, they were all going to disappear into the dark wood. _Or something much worse._

"Head towards Littledean." Harry broke into her thoughts, motioning at a sign that was blurring past. Hermione made a hard left and jumped off the highway into the foggy darkness of the Wye Valley.

They drove along winding roads for the better part of an hour before Harry spoke again. "Here," he grumbled. "Pull over and park." They had just passed a rotting wooden sign indicating that they had entered The Narth. A more desolate place she could not have imagined; dark and moss-covered. The sun did not seem to penetrate this part of the forest.

She had barely turned off the engine before the banging in back started up. "Ron," she said to no one. Harry was already out of the car, stalking towards the boot. The arguing started immediately.

"Alright, you. Up and out."

"Harry, mate, you can't do this. Think of my _mum_."

"I'm thinking about my own hide. And Hermione's or have you forgotten?"

"No, I hadn't forgotten—"

"You always were a selfish prig."

"Stop it. Stop it!" she yelled. Shockingly, both men just stood staring at her, dumbfounded into a momentary silence. "Give him to me." She shot her arm out towards Harry, hand extended and waggled her fingers in a 'come on' sort of motion. She gently placed her other hand on the gun she had tucked inside the waist of her pants where he could see and raised an eyebrow. Harry slowly guided Ron in her direction and she grabbed his arm.

"Hermione, list—"

"I've heard just about enough from you for one night, Harry," she said, flatly. "We all knew what we were getting into. I'm done being lectured at." She grabbed Ron's arm and started to lead him away. "I'll be back in a jiff," she said, and they fumbled their way up into the treeline alone.

When she was satisfied that they were out of earshot, she pressed Ron up against a tree for stability and took a breath. He hadn't said a thing since they'd left the road, and had done an admirable job of picking his way along the unfamiliar territory with the hood still on his head. She moved in and removed it, grateful that there was no sunlight to blind him.

"Hermione," he breathed, "I'm—I'm so sorry."

She took the gun out of her waistband and motioned for him to sit. His hands here still tied behind his back; his legs remained bound. He shook with sobs. She got down on her knees and leaned in close. "Breathe," she whispered, loosening the knot that bound his hands. "It's going to be okay" She wiped at his tear-strained face, and smiled, looking at his face as if she might not see it again.

"I only wanted to protect you," he said, sagging.

"And now I get to protect you," she replied. She frayed the rope around his ankles. "It needs to at least _seem_ as if you escaped," she smiled, ruefully. "Make it look good, okay?" She grabbed his face and kissed him, hard and fast. "I'll wait for you," she cried. "As long as it takes, I'll wait for you."

Ron blinked, relieved but still stunned.

She leaned back, closing her switchblade. "Lay low," she said, folding her blade. "And come back to me." She kissed him again, and hopped up to leave.

"And I'll be able to return?" he asked with so much sincerity that her heart felt like it would burst.

"I'm gonna do everything I can to make that happen."

"And Harry?"

"Leave him to me," she smiled. A car horn split the night and she looked over her shoulder. "Gotta run."

"Any problems?" Harry asked when she finally reemerged. He looked annoyed but Hermione was in no mood to care.

"Only tripping over tree roots in the dark," she huffed and got into the passenger side of the car. She leaned her head against the cold window and closed her eyes. It was a long drive back to London and she was gonna need some sleep.


	7. Blind

Round# 5

Year: 6

School: Ilvermonry

Theme: Look at horror and fear in the wizarding world.

_Special Rule: Incorporate the colour white and the meaning behind it in your story: Innocence_

Main prompt: [First line] "Looking back, [s]he could not tell you how [s]he got here"

Optional prompts:[Word] Revenge, [Emotion] Anticipation

Word count: 1791

A/N: Lily has always been something of a conundrum for me. She was capable of cutting off entirely a friend she'd had from childhood for a single indiscretion (albeit, a HUGE one) while finding in her heart forgiveness and understanding for a person who was a bully and participated in the torment of others on numerous occasions. She seems...incongruous in a way that speaks to the huge holes in her back story. We really don't _know_ her at all except through the eyes of others. Was she both kind and cruel? Certainly she was brave and strong, but was she also cold or unforgiving? Maybe all of those things are true; maybe none are. It is all in the eye of the beholder with Lily Evans. And therein lies the rub. She is hard to pin down. Generally I tend to stay away from this time period (pre-Hogwarts) just for this reason, but Lily, and her relationship to Snape, bother me. It _must_ have been more complicated, right? It couldn't have been easy for her to have turned her back on the first person she shared her secret of magic with, could it? How much emotional tussling did she go through? Sometimes the allure of the unknown is much too tempting to pass up. That is usually a mistake. I guess I'll find out.

Innocence: _noun,_ harmlessness, naivete. I think Lily had to be pretty naive to believe that James or his friends weren't "up to something" after all the things she'd heard and witnessed for herself. Yet she married one, entrusted the raising of her only child to another upon her demise, and confided in another her hideaway — which cost her her life. It shows some of the complexity I expect I would find in the character of Lily Evans Potter had Rowling chosen to flesh her out herself. Someone who wanted, perhaps too much, to believe what was best in people. I am taking some time to explore that innocence in terms of some of the unexplored dimensions of her relationship to Severus Snape. In my mind, it is a feeble attempt to explain the veracity and fervor of the ultimate dissolution of their relationship. However, it is also not in keeping with canon, and thus, must be considered AU.

Admittedly, I am not a consumer of the post-Hogwarts materials; I've read neither _The Cursed Child _nor have I seen any of the _Fantastic Beasts_ movies. I'm going on with only the original books provided by Rowling before she started embellishing on certain facets of what we thought we knew. However, and to my limited knowledge, her new materials do not affect our knowledge of Lily Evans or Lily Potter; at least not yet. Who knows what the future holds.

Horror and fear lurk even within the pages of the very first HP book. Be it the fear of reprisal at the hands of the Dursley's or the ultimate fear of the Dark Lord's return. In between, though, are the complexities of what fear is, and what we derive horror from. We are scared of werewolves and their inherent violence until we come to understand them through knowing Lupin as a person. It does not change the fundamental violence of his nature once transformed, but we come to find compassion for someone who is different than we are; even if we are still afraid. Fear is, mostly, of what we don't know. Yet, horror is different. Horror can be deepened with knowledge. Seeing an act of unkindness or cruelty can inspire fear; knowing that someone can commit said acts without feeling or remorse is horrifying. I am playing a bit at the edges with that here: fear of the unknown (or unconfirmed) and horror at the known.

**Blind**

Looking back, she could not tell you how she got here. Trauma had a way of wiping out the details of one's memory. Or so she assumed anyway. Lily was lucky that way; trauma hadn't been a big part of her life. _Until now._ How did she distance herself from Severus and his pure blood cronies only to end up like this? It didn't make any sense.

She raised herself up gingerly. Every part of her body hurt, and in the light of the full moon that streamed down from between the clouds, her skin was ghostly white. Or black with bruises. She brushed herself off and took stock. The room looked utterly destroyed; nothing that remained was larger than a matchstick, although, oddly enough, the structure itself seemed unaffected.

It was then that she heard the moan.

Her eyes fluttered and her skin pricked with goosebumps, but she pressed her lips together and stayed silent, motionless. She tried, desperately, to remember anything that might help her determine if it be friend or foe who was groaning nearby. She held her breath and waited.

"Lily…" he gasped. She knew that voice anywhere.

"Severus?" No matter their disagreements, she had no doubts he would never harm her. She groped around until her eyes adjusted and she started to see the outline of his body. He had propped himself up against a wall, the shadows a stark contrast of inky blackness that made him practically invisible.

"Here," he whispered. "Here." His hands were cautiously exploring his scalp. Lily thought she could see a drip of blood oozing out of his hairline and down his cheek.

"You're hurt."

"We're _all_ hurt." Severus nodded curtly in the direction of another crumpled body just to his left. This one was not moving. It was James.

She stifled a cry and slid over to the still form, her hands moving quickly over him as she checked for signs of life. It was only then that she realized she did not have her wand at hand.

"I knew they were fools, but this?" Severus was already making his way to his feet but was plainly unsteady. "How could this _happen_?"

Lily was tense, anxious and confused. "What exactly _did _happen?" She had James' head cradled in her lap while he lay unresponsive and was trying to sort out the chaos around her. Again, she reached for a wand that wasn't there. _Where had it gone?_ She tried again to retrace her steps in her mind, but the world went dark no sooner had she emerged inside the old shack on the outskirts of the castle grounds.

She felt a hand on her own and started. Severus had managed tocrawl over while she was lost in thought. He raised his eyebrows, a silent, begrudging question. _At least he is being helpful_.

He assisted her in getting James laid out flat and took out his wand. "I only know a few diagnostic charms," he admitted, somewhat uncharacteristically.

"Surely if he is beyond that, it would be more than we _alone_ could handle anyway," she replied, hoping it sounded encouraging.

Severus looked down and didn't bother to hide a sneer, but went about his business without further comment.

Lily rose carefully, using a nearby wall as security. Having taken a moment to collect herself, she was feeling quite a bit more sure footed than even just a moment ago. She found herself surprised at how bright it was in a building that was little more than a garden shed with windows now that her eyes had adjusted. Where the moonlight penetrated was awash in a cool, silvery sheen that painted the weather-worn wood white.

She scoured the floor with her eyes, looking for her wand. Intent as she was, the gasp from across the room startled her.

"James!"

His breathing steadied but his eyes remained closed. Severus sat back, leaning into a wall, his hair shadowing his face. "He'll live," he said, "but no thanks to his _so-called_ friends."

"Do you really think this is the time?"

He drew even further into the gloom, drawing his knees tight to his body. "When _is _the time, then, Lily? Tell me."

She was bewildered. James was unconscious, and Severus wanted to talk about how he didn't get along with Sirius or Peter? "We need to ta—"

"You need to answer me, Lily Evans!" Severus had rushed out at her, grabbing her by the arms, shaking her like she was not much more than a doll. _Had he always been so strong?_

"Severus!" She squirmed to get out of his grip. She was certain he was leaving bruises. "Let go. Let. Go!" She stomped on his foot, only in that instant creating enough confusion to break his hold. She backed away quickly, and ended up stumbling to her knees.

Her hand grazed her missing wand, but she made no sudden moves. She didn't want to give the game away. She wanted him to think she was still relatively helpless. Lily wasn't sure what he was playing at, but she couldn't bring herself to think the worst. _He's not like that._

Still, she thought about the slur he had only just recently used, and her blood boiled.

He kept his wand casually trained on her. It dangled in his fingers loosely; just one of those things that had marked him as a wizard by birth, not talent alone. He possessed an effortless grace with his instrument. It ate Lily alive with envy.

She still gripped her wand as if it, and her magic, might slip away at any moment. It still haunted her, the thought of going back home a failure. _Just a Muggle_.

He laughed, as if he could read her mind. "You always were naive." He stalked over to her with alarming efficiency, quiet and quick. "You have no idea, do you?" he whispered. A smile that would've made Lucius Malfoy proud crept over his face. "You are so trusting." He had the nerve to brush a finger against her cheek. "So innocent."

"And you are _so_ experienced and knowledgeable." She gripped her wand tight, but held firm. Angry as she was, he had her. She needed to know what he was talking about. _Curiosity. _She ground her teeth silently. _ And I'm the cat._

"I only half believed them," he said, the smile creeping across his face as he leaned over James, his hair falling to cover his face. _His eyes, anyway. _ Lily more than half suspected it was purposeful. That he did it to hide his _true_ feelings from her. _From everyone_.

He went on, ignorant of how she was assessing him. "Sirius says so many asinine things it's hard to take him seriously. But _this…_" He raised his wand, blinding them both with the bright white light.

It was only then that Lily fully took in the devastation around them.

The room had been torn asunder. Furniture blown to bits and curtains shredded; the room looked as if it had exploded. The pieces of wood beneath her fingers and in her hair had all once been whole. She gaped. "What could've caused this?" She was almost surprised to hear her own voice in the silence.

The howl of a werewolf, closer than she would've wished it, wasn't so much of a surprise as it was a terrifying realization of the truth that had been so casually bandied about for months now. Her eyes widened and James groaned into consciousness.

"Take him," Severus commanded as he leapt to his feet, far more nimble than she felt. "Take him and go!"

"But—"

"There's no time for arguments, _Evans_." He grabbed James up by the scruff of his neck and practically laid him atop her. Her knees buckled, and she braced herself against the wall just to balance the heft of James' weight. "Revenge will be sweet," she heard him say to no one in particular. "I'll shove every threat Sirius' ever made right back down his throat."

"You're mad," she shouted at him, pushing James off her and propping him up against the wall. Her hands flexed and clenched. She wanted to grab him and smack him across his smug face. She wanted to shake him senseless. She wanted…what?

_I want._ There was a period at the end of that sentence. It was complete. No matter the struggle and confusion and hurt. She wanted him.

He was staring at her. Her mouth went dry. "You see it, Lily," he pleaded, taking a step closer. "You see what I'm up against." Closer. "There will never be any peace for me. Not while I'm alone trying to straddle two worlds." His hair brushed against her face the way his fingers had earlier. _No, softer than that_. Her eyes closed and she held her breath. "I have nothing. No family — no connections. I _must_ have protection. I _must _join them," he breathed against her skin. "Or Potter there, and his ilk will have their way and I'll be dead." He turned away. "If it's not Lupin, it'll be something else. Some _accident _or other."

Even here and now, in this moment, all he could think about was revenge. She opened her eyes to the stark contrasts between them. Dark and light. Black and white. There was no middle ground for them. _Simple and true. _Hadn't it always been thus?

"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "I have to take a stand against this, or I'll never be safe."

"And me?" She needed to hear him say it again. She needed it to put this bed once and for all. "Who will protect me?"

"No one is attacking _you_, Lily." His face contorted with the struggle he felt. She was certain it was because he was lying — whether it was to her or to himself — she was far less convinced.

"Are you sure?" she asked, quietly. She let the question hang in the air between them, stark and painfully plain; blinding. She closed the distance, and now it was his turn to be frozen in the cold fire of the moon's beam.

"And you said _I_ was naive," she whispered before kissing him. It was nothing like she'd imagined — nothing at all like a warm summer's day or a happy, laughing accident. It was the bitter resignation of the sweetness that could never be; of the dream that had to be buried in the face of too many obstacles, too much suffering. This was no fairy tale and there would be no happily ever after.

"Lily," he whispered.

"Take care of yourself, Sev," she said.

She had no idea if he knew how, but she knew now that it was no longer her problem.


	8. O, what a marvel

Round# 8

Year 6

School Ilvermorny - Spinner's End

Theme: Look at the experience of half-bloods, or those that live in two worlds at the same time.

Main prompt: [Setting] Muggle Playground

Optional prompts: [Quote] "Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears." Rudyard Kipling, [Plot Point] Segregation

Word count: 1347

Author Note: AU. Summer between 6th and 7th year; a season of transition and tension.

Somewhere in my mind, I've decided that Hermione reads for pleasure as well as knowledge. While it is clear that someone in her home is a fan of Shakespeare, I also imagine she finds other authors of note on the bookshelves. The Brontës and Conrad, George Sand and Jane Austen. Maybe even a bit of Marlowe. She's well-read in more ways than just one, and even enjoys what I like to think of as 'comfort reading'—books she returns to again and again because they hold a special place in her heart. This is _not _canon, and therefore is AU.

I'll be relying on the definition of segregation as isolation here within. This is a secondary definition.

Kipling's quote could not be more timely in our current environment of uncertainty and mistrust. Fear can convince us all of things that are not true if we allow it to cloud our vision or distrust our instincts. Hermione, for me, navigates the most complicated path of the Trio having Muggle parents and a whole mundane life that she must balance along with her new, magical one. As danger closes in on one life, it threatens the other and everything she holds dear. Even in canon she chooses to remove herself from her former life in the interest of protecting and preserving those she loves; and I see that decision as having been one that must have required great thought and anguish. I imagine this journey to have been quite a process and for some of it to have been fraught with fear. I am exploring a possible scenario within some of that inner turmoil here. Again, none of this is alluded to in the canon.

As it happens, I recently learned that Hell is cold according to Dante's _Inferno_; or at least the ninth circle is. Combined with global warming, I thought I might poke fun by making the weather a bit unseasonable, as well as availing myself of some of his words to use as my title. Hats off, Signore Aligheri.

Also, whether I realized it or not, Mother's Day has had its influence on my subconscious. Happy Mother's Day to all the mums who celebrate this time of year and all the year through!

* * *

**O, what a marvel**

The wind ruffled through some pages of the long forgotten book on her lap, and Hermione shivered. It was unseasonably cold for summer, and she had gone out without benefit of a sweater assuming it would have no purpose.

_No sun. No warmth. No comfort. Not even from an old friend. _She flipped the book closed and sighed. If any would grant her a few hours escape, it was always Austen. Everything she had by Jane was rife with split spines and dog-ears from uses beyond count, and smiles to go with them. Yet, here she sat, her book no more a refuge from her heavy thoughts than her childhood bedroom had been upon her return or had her mother's arms when they embraced. There was a pall of finality to everything, and it frightened her.

She had slipped away from her parents home to a small children's playground down the lane; it was a place she remembered fondly. She loved the swings, the feeling of the wind in her hair and the ground just brushing past her feet as she pumped back and forth. Even after commencing study at Hogwarts, she returned to this place over the Summer holiday—finding amusement and ease in the laughter of younger children around her while she studied or laid soaking up the all-to-brief sunshine. As the years progressed, she found in its simple existence a solace, and it still elicited joy as the world around her only grew more complex.

Today, though, she had to finally concede—the illusion was broken.

The weather-worn bench she sat upon bristled with splinters; uninviting in every way possible. As she pried herself off of it, carefully, she noticed just how desolate a place this had become. Bereft of children and their laughter to fill it, the park was merely a ghost haunting this quiet neighborhood. Weeds grew rampant in cracks and shot up through mulch beds. Grass grew tall and unwieldy alongside the pond path. A small, red trainer, obviously sized for a toddler, had been left behind to roll beneath the slide, its vibrant colour fading with each passing rainfall. Her refuge now seemed an eerie memorial to a peace that was no longer.

_Perhaps, it never was._ These were the sorts of thoughts she could no longer seem to avoid; no longer control or even escape for short periods of time. Everything that had ever been good or solid or known seems to slip through her hands like sand. And now? Now, as she sat in the empty remnants of a happy childhood, she could not help but wonder, had it _all_ been an illusion? _And was it now time to pay the price for being a witch? For choosing to work for good?_

She wandered down the desolate path to find the pond's edge, and sat among the reeds, staring out into an abyss that was only vaguely represented by the water before her. There was a fear growing inside that she could no longer stuff down. Fear that she would have to choose; between this life and her magical one. That she would lose her parents, her home, and everything she had known because there was no possible way to bring them together. No way to straddle these disparate lives anymore.

Nothing made her feel more alone. _Without my parents? Or without my friends._ The choice was heartbreaking.

Beside her, a reed bent down with the weight of a newly arrived occupant. A sparrow had flown in, landing with grace and bobbing happily upon the thin, delicate plant stem. Within seconds, it was singing its familiar song with all its might. Hermione found the interruption frustrating. She had come here to think.

_To wallow in my self pity, more like._ She shook her head and tried to block it out, but the trill and titter of the bird's warble broke into her consciousness and she could not focus no matter how hard she tried. Yet, despite being thwarted in her intended efforts, she started to recognize a welcome feeling.

Freedom.

She sat still, not wishing to move lest the bird fly off, and listened for minutes upon minutes for the answer she knew the bird itself was seeking.

_Didn't we all seek answers?_

And then, it came. Distant sounding at first, the answering call grew closer and closer with each passing moment. It drew nearer still until it joined the first, finding a nearby reed and taking up a perch. Together the two sang, and the call continued until others joined them. Hermione found herself frozen, motionless until the whole of the pond seemed filled with song when before there had been none.

And she felt that knot in her chest release.

She could not have said why she felt that relief—not immediately anyway. For the time being, it was enough to feel it. To hold her breath and be a part of a magic that had nothing to do with silly wand waving or dark lords, wizard chess or brewing luck. It was an older magic; the kind they used to write about in epic poems.

The shriek of a child's laughter broke the spell, and she inhaled. The pounding of small feet, slapping the path unevenly in that way that toddlers do, warned her of the incoming intruder just in time. She turned to meet a ruddy-cheeked cherub as it burst through the vegetation and would have stormed headlong into the pond had the path not been blocked. Seemingly undeterred, the child looked up and raised its arms instinctively.

"Up!" it demanded. It's short, blond curls poked out from beneath a sun hat, but in its green jumper and blue jeans, it was impossible to determine boy or girl. It mattered still less, and Hermione found herself complying with the demand immediately, worried that she did not hear or see an adult nearby.

"Now, little one," she started, speaking softly so as not to provoke alarm. "Where in the world are your people?" The child didn't seem in the least bit scared and was too busy picking the feathery ends off of a bullrush to be all that interested. Hermione could not help but wonder at this turn of events. _Not alone._

She took advantage of good fortune to soothe herself and the babe, squeezing the child tightly to her own body even as the child naturally clung back. It calmed her even more than the birdsong had, and reminded her all too bluntly that in doing her part she was protecting innocents like the one she clung to now. She felt the tears well up in her eyes, and she released them with gratitude.

Hermione did not linger long before she opted to head back in the direction of the play area with her small companion. Before they even emerged from tall grass, she could hear the shouting.

"Jenny? Jenny!"

Hermione stopped in her tracks, the child still in her arms, but squirming now that she was within earshot of her mum. A smile broadened on her face as she nuzzled that lovely baby hair one last time, and she placed the child down on her own two feet. "Here we go," she coaxed. "Let's find mummy and da."

The child burst from the grass, leaving Hermione behind. She slowed to a stop, watching to make sure that the baby girl made it all the way back without veering off before raising a hand in acknowledgement of thanks from the relieved parents. She reveled only momentarily in the joy of their reunion before turning her feet towards home.

The light was fading as she approached the small house she shared with her parents. She could see them through the front window, bustling about in the kitchen as they normally did making dinner. So predictable. So mundane. She felt her heart squeeze. There was no giving this up—just the way there was no leaving Hogwarts. She would need them both if she were to be true to herself.

And she could not imagine any other way to be.


End file.
